Kipper Ties

I might not ever say those same words in the same order ever again. 

It is a quite unique combination of words perhaps muttered by mere mortals on a very rare occasion. 

They were the most apt and explanatory words for what I had to do but nevertheless caused quite a stir amongst my co-workers upon announcing them as the reason for leaving the office this morning. 

“I have to go and deliver some Kippers”. 

I was not being euphemistic, ambiguous or double-entendring  (not sure if that is a real word). My late Father had his own phrase about “going to see a man about a dog” which gradually sank in amongst the rest of the family as meaning that he had to leave and do some errand but with no predetermined timescale. 

I had no intention of developing my own euphemism but “I have to go and deliver some kippers” is as good as any and could cover all manner of trips, jaunts and absences from the office or home. 

In fact I was trying to help out my wife’s Australian cousin, who with his wife is on a visit to the UK after some seven or so years of last being here. 

On his wish list for the 3 week vacation was the purchase of some Kippers- surely everyone knows what these are- wood smoke cured herring. 

There is a good choice of these on any ice packed fish counter at a supermarket and even in the ordinary seafood display down the delicatessen aisle. It is even possible to buy a rather bland and unappetising boil in the bag version. 

However, the best ever kippers are from a specific source in a magical place. 

I am talking about Fortunes in the North Yorkshire coast town of Whitby. 

I had not actually heard of them before but as far away as Australia they were held with some reverence. They regularly featured on those regional food programmes on TV channels where celebrity chefs or just plain celebrities go in search of good, authentic, honest and artisan products. You know the sort of broadcasts where the presenter wears a safari suit, fancy hat and drives around in a classic motor vehicle decrying the globalisation and anonymity of food production. 

There has been a huge emphasis in the media on provenance of food especially after the controversy and public outcry about horse flesh in lasagne and the re-emergence in the food supply chain of previously condemned and supposedly confiscated meat, fruit and vegetables. 

You cannot get any more authentic and pure than a Fortunes Kipper- no, not a slick marketing slogan from a top-notch advertising agency but my own endorsement having been to the Whitby headquarters just yesterday. 

The use of the term HQ is as far from reality as you can get. 

Fortunes premises comprise of a shack of a shop about 5 metres by 3 metres and leaning against the back of it the smokehouse, another shack. 

We could smell the wonderful aroma of the curing smoke from the bottom of the steep 199 steps that snake up the cliffside from Whitby Town to the ruins of the Abbey. The odour reminds me always of the open log and coal fires of rented cottages during a winter weekend or early springbreak along that part of the Yorkshire coastline, Robin Hoods Bay and Staithes in particular which are not far off equidistant from Whitby to the south and north respectively. 

Yesterday was a beautiful late September one after some very mixed and unpredictable weather over the preceding summer months. The town, for a Tuesday and out of season was as busy as ever with the main pedestrian flow being along the narrow harbourside streets and up the ladder-like steps. 

We veered off from the pack following with our noses the smoky air, just visible as a light cloud between the parallel terraced houses of Henrietta Street perched high above the convergence of the River Esk and the North Sea. 

We could not yet see the source of the enticing sight and smell but were pretty close as successive cottages were named along a Kipper theme amongst the usual tributes to Captain Cook and nautical terms. 

A rather weatherbeaten sign on the side of a low single storey building could just be seen bearing the Fortunes name and pedigree of time served Kipper smoking. 

A hand written piece of paper in the squat window said that they were not open until 1.30pm that day, a tantalising 40 minutes ahead. 

A white smoke, a sort of Papal vote hue, was wisping around the top of a hefty door on the outbuilding and was fine enough to squeeze its way seemingly through the roof and every knot hole, nook and cranny of the timber and brick walls. 

Time dragged by even with the purchase of an ice cream and a welcome sit down on a precariously angled timber bench in a warm sunny spot just around the corner. 

At last we retraced our steps along the well worn cobbles where you are never far away from the spirits and lost souls of the historic fishing and whaling community from centuries past. 

As a treat the doors to the smoke house were wide open having been emptied of the tarry racks of aromatic Kippers which now stood on a counter in the shack shop. The floor of the smoke house was strewn with part combusted woodchips and its walls caked in a treacle-like residue from over 140 years of production. 

We were first in a slowly forming queue, a bit like kiddies in a sweet shop and for £3.95 we could have a pair of mellow toned, fine boned Kippers of our very own. 

Six pairs were bought from a recited list of family members to whom had been promised a proper Kipper over the previous few days by our Australian guests. I would be roped into a delivery service in due course.

Wrapped up by, I assume a Mr Fortune, they were whisked away back down the narrow street and held close as though freshly found treasure. 

Tomorrow I will tell you about the cooking of them.